


Thomas Gets a Dog

by Alex51324



Series: Patches 'verse [1]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Gen, Puppies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2012-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-20 00:01:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/579069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alex51324/pseuds/Alex51324
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pretty much what it says on the tin.  Set post-series 3.  Non-detailed spoilers for main events of the series.  </p><p>Warnings: references to what would today be considered the inhumane disposal of unwanted puppies (but it doesn't actually happen).  One fairly mild homophobic remark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thomas Gets a Dog

**Author's Note:**

> Written during a brief hiatus from writing The Thomas Barrow Show. In memory of Daisy. RIP.

It began one day in August, when Alfred came into the servants’ hall looking flushed and disheveled. “Was there a reason Isis was penned up in the old scullery?”

“Yes,” Thomas said. “She’s on heat. And what do you mean, _was_?”

“She’s halfway across the estate now,” Alfred said. “I heard something scratching in there, so I opened the door, and….”

“You bloody idiot,” Thomas said, standing up. “Go round up the outside staff to help look for her. I’ll get James and the hall boys.”

“I’m sure she’ll come back,” Alfred said.

“After every mongrel in the village has had a go at her, sure. And his lordship has a fancy purebred stud coming tomorrow for her.” 

Alfred went pale. “Do we have to tell him?”

“Of course we have to tell him! Have everyone wait in the courtyard; I’ll be out to direct the search as soon as I’ve told him.”

Thomas had hoped that his own role in the search might be purely supervisory, but when his lordship decided to take part, and dragged Mr. Matthew and Mr. Branson into it as well, he figured he didn’t have much choice. They ended up spending hours at it. The gardener who finally brought her back reported that Isis was alone when he found her, but his lordship had the veterinarian called out anyway. Thomas let him in and showed him to the library, where his lordship was waiting with the patient. He decided to linger, to see if he could get an idea just how much trouble Alfred was in. 

“There’s no way of knowing until the puppies come, I’m afraid,” the veterinarian said, once he’d completed his examination. “She’s still on heat, but that doesn’t tell us anything.”

“Should I cancel the stud coming tomorrow?” Lord Grantham asked.

“That’s for you to decide. You oughtn’t to register the litter with the Kennel Club if you aren’t sure about the sire, but if you don’t mind about that, you can go ahead. It’s perfectly possible for a litter to have multiple sires, so you may get some pure-blooded pups, even if another dog has covered her.”

His lordship sighed. “And there isn’t anything that can be done?”

“I’m afraid not—apart from a complete hysterectomy, which would of course leave her unable to have puppies in future. You can always cull some when the litter’s born.”

The stud dog came as scheduled, and two months later, Isis was very round, and his lordship still had a tendency to sigh and shake his head when he saw her. A whelping place was prepared for her in the old scullery, and she scratched relentlessly at the door as her time neared, but they all knew better than to let her out, now.

One morning, when Thomas came down and walked past the old scullery, she _didn’t_ scratch at the door. He opened the door a crack and peered inside to see Isis lying curled around a little of squirming puppies, holding one down with a paw while she licked it. Despite himself, he was charmed by the sight. 

“What have you got there?” he asked, going in. 

Isis paused briefly to look up at him, thumping her tail once, then resumed licking industriously. 

“You have a proper little family there now, don’t you?” He tried to count them, but since they were all lying in a heap, it was hard to tell whether there were five or six, all together. He edged closer, cautiously. He’d heard that mother dogs could be protective of their puppies—and frankly, he always expected Isis to one day remember he was the one who had locked her in a shed on a cold night—but she seemed eager to show off her family, shifting onto her side to give him a better view. 

He knelt down just as she, apparently, decided the one she was licking was clean enough. She gave it a shove with her nose, and he knew she must just be trying to get it back with the others, but it looked like she was offering it to him. Fascinated, but still cautious, he reached slowly toward it. Isis didn’t object, so he picked up the puppy.

It was surprisingly warm, considering it was covered in dog slobber, and heavy, too. Its head looked curiously unformed—flatter in the front than a grown dog’s, with the ears pasted down against the sides of the head, and its eyes shut. But the stubby little paws had tiny pads and perfect nails. It grubbed blindly with its mouth and latched onto his smallest finger, sucking with surprising strength. 

He laughed, surprising himself. “You’re a hungry little beggar, aren’t you? Here, let’s put you back with mum.” 

As he settled the puppy back against Isis’s side, he noticed for the first time that it was different from the others. The one he’d been holding had black and brown patches, like a hound, while the others were pure cream-coloured, a shade or two lighter than Isis. 

“Oh,” he said, as he realized why. 

Quickly, he stood up, brushing the dog hair off his hands and trousers. Not much point getting attached to that one, then. 

He reported the news to Mr. Carson, and after breakfast his lordship came down to see the new arrivals. The puppies weren’t any of his business, and Thomas knew he ought to stay away, but something made him linger in the doorway of the old scullery while Lord Grantham examined each of the four white puppies in turn. “I think this is the one we’ll keep,” he said, indicating the largest pup. “The sire’s owner wants a bitch for his pick. I’m sure we won’t have trouble finding homes for these two.”

“Shall I have the gardener deal with the other one?” Carson asked.

Before Thomas could stop himself, he blurted out, “Someone in the village might take it.”

His lordship looked over his shoulder at him. Finally he said, “She seems to have enough milk, and five isn’t a large litter for a Labrador. We’ll leave it for now.”

So the little mongrel was spared—at least for the moment. Thomas found himself taking what he knew was an almost morbid interest in its fate, checking several times a day to see if it had been taken off and drowned yet. For the first couple of weeks, it looked the same as the others, except for its color; they were all un-formed and grublike. But as the puppies grew, the others’ legs lengthened, and their faces took on the familiar shape of Isis’s head. The spotted pup’s legs stayed short, as its nose and ears lengthened. 

Isis treated them all the same, but she was the only one who did. His lordship came down almost daily to see and handle the others, but all but ignored the little spotted one. Around three weeks old, the others were given names—Ramses for the big male who was his lordship’s favorite, Osiris, Nefertiti, and Amunet for the others. 

“That one will have to be kept out of sight when people come to look at them,” Lord Grantham said one day, when he happened to be visiting the puppies at the same time Thomas was. 

“Yes, my lord,” he agreed, thinking his lordship was just making an observation. 

But when the owner of the litter’s sire came to choose which of the bitches he wanted, Mrs. Hughes tracked him down and said, “Lord Ashton’s just arrived. You can take the little spotted pup into my sitting room—that way he’ll stay warm and out of sight.”

So Thomas collected the little spotted puppy, wrapped in a towel. He was quiet at first, but started whimpering when Thomas tried to leave him on a cushion by the hearth. He didn’t settle down again until Thomas picked him back up. 

It wouldn’t do much good keeping the puppy out of sight if Lord Ashton could still hear him, Thomas reasoned. And he didn’t have anything pressing going on right now. He sat in Mrs. Hughes’s rocking chair, with the puppy in his lap, and gave him his finger to suck on. 

He quickly realized his mistake—the puppy’s needle-sharp little teeth were coming in. The puppy didn’t want to let go, but fortunately, he fell asleep again before Thomas’s hand was too chewed up. 

It was relaxing, just to sit there, the sleeping puppy on his knee, rocking and idly stroking the puppy’s head with his thumb. He’d nearly dozed off himself when Mrs. Hughes came in. “Lord Ashton’s gone,” she said. 

He jumped up, barely catching the puppy before it slid off his lap. “Right. Let’s get this little chap back, then. He didn’t much fancy being left on his own.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Hughes said, with a slight smile, holding the door for him as he left her parlour. 

Looking at her as he went through the door, he said, “Do you know which one Lord Ashton p—” He stopped short as he collided with someone, and, by the grace of God, managed to realize that it was Lord Grantham, before he’d told him to watch where he was bloody going. “I’m so sorry, my lord,” he said instead. 

His lordship nodded. “Quite all right. Nefertiti, by the way.”

“Pardon, my lord?”

“Lord Ashton chose Nefertiti,” he said patiently. 

Oh. “Very good, my lord.”

“Have you found a home for this little chap yet?” Lord Grantham continued, reaching out to fondle the puppy’s ear. 

“Ah—no, my lord.” He hadn’t realized that was his job. “They aren’t quite ready to leave Isis yet, are they?” The puppy was so small.

“No, not yet, but we’ll be starting them on solid food in a week or so, and then another couple of weeks after that, they’ll be ready to go.” His lordship turned to go, then turned back. “Avoid mentioning his parentage, if you can. I’d rather not have owning the littermate of the Earl of Grantham’s dog become a bragging point for the butcher, or whoever it is.”

“Of course, my lord.”

Isis, at least, seemed glad to have the puppy back. She sniffed and licked him thoroughly before releasing him to play with his brothers and sisters. 

On his next half-day, Thomas went down to the village to make inquiries about who might be looking for a new dog. He began with the postmistress, always a valuable source of gossip. She gave him two promising leads and agreed to keep an ear out and send any interested parties his way. 

One of the leads was, in fact, the butcher’s wife. She listened to him describe the dog’s features in detail, then said, “I decided on a cat instead.” She indicated a large ginger-striped animal that was reclining on the counter. “Less likely to get into things and make a mess.”

The dog would have at least stayed off the counter, Thomas thought, but there was no us arguing. “Let me know if you hear of anyone else who’s looking for one.”

The second possibility was a spinster in reduced circumstances who lived in a cottage near the church. After applying at the kitchen door, the maid of all work eventually showed him into a shabby, overstuffed drawing room. 

“Good afternoon,” she said, peering up at him through a pair of spectacles perched on her nose. She was quite elderly, and so was the maid—Thomas wasn’t sure how either of them would keep up with an active puppy. 

“Good afternoon,” he said. “Miss Aggie at the post office said you were interested in a dog, mum?”

“Yes, I am,” she agreed.

This one might have been better off with a cat, he thought, but he wasn’t going to argue with her, either. “I know of one that needs a home. A puppy. He’ll be ready to leave his mother in a few weeks.”

“Oh, that sounds nice. What kind?”

“Well, a mix, mum,” Thomas said. “But he’s very charming.”

“Is it a _small_ dog?”

“He’s small now,” Thomas said hopefully. “But his mother is…rather large,” he admitted.

“And I suppose he isn’t housetrained yet, if he’s only a puppy.”

“Er…no, mum.”

“I’m afraid he won’t suit, then. Thank you anyway.”

A couple of days later, Miss Aggie sent word of another prospect up with the post, but by the time Thomas managed to get away from his duties, a couple of days after that, the people had already gone to the dog and cats’ home in York and gotten a terrier. 

Then the baker’s boy came up to the house and tried to wheedle his way in to see the puppies. Thomas knew better than to allow _that_ , but he did take the spotted one out into the courtyard for a moment and let the kid see him. The boy said he’d take him—in fact, had to be strongly dissuaded from stuffing him into his pocket right there—but the next day, a note came from the lad’s mum, addressed to “The butler with the dog,” saying in no uncertain terms that if her son came home with a puppy she was sending it straight back. Thomas sympathized; at that age, he’d had a dog himself for about two and a half days, before his father found out about it. 

Stronger measures were called for, Thomas decided. There were farms all about, and farmers kept dogs. He sought out Mr. Branson and explained the situation. “So if you wouldn’t mind, sir--” the word stuck in his craw, but this was no time to make a point of things “—letting me know if any of the farmers could use a dog.”

Branson stared at him for a moment. “Why are you asking me?”

“Because I don’t have much reason to be going around talking to farmers, do I?” he asked, remembering at the last minute to add another, “Sir.”

“All right, first off, farmers don’t want that kind of dog. They want a sheepdog or a terrier—something that can work ‘round the farm. And what I meant was, I didn’t realize finding homes for dogs was an under-butler’s job.”

“Lord Grantham asked me to do it,” he said stiffly.

Branson shook his head. “I’ll keep an ear out, but you’re better off asking around in the village.”

“I’ve already done that.” Inspiration struck. “Do you think the baby might like a dog, sir?”

“She’s a little young for that, Thomas,” Branson said. “And Lord Grantham already offered us one of the others.”

“Right,” Thomas said. Of course he had. Branson was one of the family now; he could have one of the purebred dogs if he wanted. “Sorry, sir. Thank you.”

On his next half-day, the puppies were big enough to leave their mothers for short periods, so he took the puppy with him to the village, wrapped up in an old jumper. Maybe only asking people who already knew they wanted a dog was where he’d gone wrong—naturally, if they’d given it much thought, they might have a particular kind of dog in mind. The thing was to show it round, and wait for someone to realize that a dog was what had been missing from their lives. 

He showed off the puppy in the post office, the butcher’s—where the evil ginger cat took a swipe at him with his claws—the greengrocer’s, and the tea shop. There was no shortage of interested parties—interested in petting the puppy, smelling its head, and telling him they were sure such a fine looking animal would have no trouble finding a home. None of them actually wanted to take the puppy, apart from several children whose requests were firmly refused by their mums. 

A couple of days later, he taking the puppies out for an afternoon romp in the garden—something else that had become his job while he wasn’t looking—when his lordship approached. He patted Isis and watched the puppies tumble around on the grass—Ramses was chewing determinedly on Osiris’s leg. Thomas gave him a respectful nod, but didn’t speak, since he hadn’t been spoken to.

Then the spotted puppy started chewing on Ramses’ tail. That, Thomas thought, was not good. They did it all the time, but his lordship wouldn’t like seeing his personal dog being trounced by the mongrel Thomas couldn’t manage to give away. He was frozen in horror for just a second too long, and his lordship moved first, stepping forward and taking a firm grip on his walking stick. 

Thomas cringed inwardly, but all Lord Grantham did was insert the tip of the stick between the two puppies, prying them apart gently. “All right, chaps, that’s enough of that now.”

He let out a sigh of relief and, before he could stop himself, ducked in to pick up the spotted puppy and clutch it to his chest. 

Lord Grantham gave him a strange look. “Have you found a home for that one yet?” he asked.

“Ah…not yet, my lord. It seems no one in the village is looking for a dog at the moment.”

“I suggest you get on it. The others are leaving next week.”

Next week. He didn’t even have another half-day before then. He’d have to ask Mr. Carson to give him another afternoon off—and there wasn’t much chance of that, was there? “Yes, my lord,” he said. 

Later, once he’d taken the dogs in and gotten them settled in the old scullery again, he waited for Mr. Carson to leave his pantry unattended and rang up York and asked for the dog and cats’ home. 

Once he was connected, he asked how he would go about bringing in a puppy. 

The woman on the other end explained that he could bring it any time during their operating hours. “We ask for a donation towards the animal’s care if you can manage it.”

“All right,” he said. “And you, uh…I mean, people go there to get family pets, don’t they? You’ll find him a good home?”

“All I can promise is that we’ll try. We do have to humanely destroy some every week—there simply isn’t room to keep them all.”

“I understand. Thank you.” That would be better than drowning him, anyway. At least he’d have a chance. Hanging up, he turned to go, and noticed Mrs. Hughes watching him from the doorway. “What?”

With a slight smile, she shook her head and left. 

That was bloody helpful. 

The next day at dinner, Bates and Anna were talking about fixing up the cottage, how they went into the auction house in Ripon on their half-days, looking for bargains on furniture and household goods. They did that all the time, like they didn’t realize it might be just a little bit irritating to those of them who would never have a home of their own to furnish. But this time, Thomas had an idea. “You know what every house needs?” he asked.

Anna and Bates exchanged a look. “What, Thomas?”

“A dog. A puppy, as a matter of fact.”

Anna sighed.

“No, really, it’ll be perfect. Have you thought about children? A puppy’s excellent practice, and children love dogs. Or if you aren’t having them, then you ought to have something, keep the house from being lonely. Greet you when you come home, all that sort of thing.”

“And to bark all night, make a mess on the carpet, and chew the shoes,” Bates said. “No, thank you.”

Carson cleared his throat. “I thought you were going to find the dog a home in the village.”

“I tried,” Thomas muttered. It wasn’t his fault nobody wanted the damn thing. “Never mind. I’ll take him into the dog and cats’ home in York on my next half-day. They’ll probably have to kill him, but who cares.” If he didn’t, they’d probably make him drown it himself, since he had somehow become responsible for it. “It’s Alfred’s fault anyway.”

“Hey!” said Alfred. 

“You’re the one who let her out to get--” Thomas belatedly remembered there were ladies present. “In trouble.” 

“Mr. Barrow,” Carson began, but Mrs. Hughes put her hand on his arm and gave him a quelling look. Remarkably, he subsided. 

“Thomas,” Anna said kindly, “why don’t you keep the puppy yourself?”

“Because I wouldn’t be allowed to, would I? We don’t all have our own cottage and—anyway, I don’t want to. I don’t even like dogs.”

Bates, the bastard, actually laughed at that. Chuckled, anyway. “Thomas—”

“Just leave me alone.” With that, he ran out, not even caring that Carson would probably yell at him later, or that they’d all sit there and laugh at him behind his back. 

#

Elsie went into Mr. Carson’s pantry, carefully closing the door behind her. “Have you spoken to Mr. Barrow since supper?”

Carson looked up from the wine ledger. “I am, as he requested, leaving him alone.”

“He’s in the scullery,” she said. 

Shaking his head, Carson said, “This is precisely what you get with that sort of man. Hysterics.”

“At least it’s a dog this time, and not a footman,” she pointed out.

Carson gave her a sharp look. 

Apparently he was not quite ready for humor on that subject. More seriously, she continued, “He’s gotten very fond of the poor creature.”

“He wouldn’t be having this difficulty now if he hadn’t stopped his lordship from drowning it earlier.”

“His lordship has a soft spot for dogs. I doubt he liked that idea any more than Thomas did.”

“Be that as it may, it is not Mr. Barrow’s decision, and he shouldn’t have involved himself.”

And wasn’t that just like Mr. Carson, to think a body could stop caring for another soul by sheer force of will. “It’s been good for him, having something of his own to care for.” 

Now Carson closed the ledger. “No.”

She waited.

“Under-butlers do not keep dogs.” 

“I wasn’t aware there was a law,” she said. 

Carson stood and nudged past her to put the ledger back on its shelf. “Pardon me. And then what do I say when Daisy or Ivy finds a stray kitten, or one of the hall-boys wants a budgie?”

“Why, then you say that between his lordship’s dogs and Thomas’s, we have plenty of pets already.”

#

Thomas was standing in the courtyard, smoking, when Mrs. Hughes came out. He was reminded of that other time. At least now he wasn’t crying. And he was fairly sure he wasn’t about to be sacked. If they could handle him being a sod, he could likely get away with mouthing off in the servants’ hall and running off in a huff, too. It wasn’t as though he’d run very far.

“Ah. I thought you might be out here.”

“I don’t want to talk, Mrs. Hughes,” he said. 

“Well, isn’t that a pity,” she said, coming over and leaning against a patch of wall next to the one he’d claimed. “Do you want to keep the puppy?”

“It doesn’t matter if I do or I don’t, since I can’t,” he answered.

She just looked at him. 

“I haven’t thought about it.”

She looked at him some more.

“Maybe I would,” he finally said. And damn her for asking, because now he was thinking about it. He could take the puppy for walks during his free hour in the afternoon. And if he had bad dreams—everyone did, since the war, he was sure—maybe it would wake up and come over and lick his hand or something. That might be nice. “But I can’t. Where would I put him when I was working?”

“Well,” she said, “as I told Mr. Carson, I wouldn’t mind putting a basket for him in my sitting room.”

“And he’d get underfoot when I was trying to carry things up to the dining room.”

“Hm. Yes, you’d have to teach him not to do that.”

“And like Bates said, they chew and get into things…it’s just not practical.” He knew that. He did. It was why he hadn’t even let himself think about it. 

“Oh, all right. I’ll just go and tell Mr. Carson never mind, then.”

He looked up. “What?”

“He said that if his lordship agrees, you can keep the dog. Does the little chap have a name?”

“Patches,” Thomas answered without thinking. He hadn’t even allowed himself to realize that he’d given the puppy a name, because he _knew_ it wasn’t his. But apparently he had. 

“You’ll have to ask his lordship yourself,” Mrs. Hughes continued. “I think I’ve done enough for one day.”

“Yeah. Ah….” He managed to meet her eyes. “Thank you. I…thanks.”

She patted his arm. “I’ve always been fond of dogs myself, and he’s a sweet little thing.”

Stubbing out his cigarette, Thomas went inside to have a look at Patches. He was sleeping in a pile with his littermates. Isis was off somewhere, maybe going for a walk with his lordship. Leaning against the doorframe, Thomas stood and watched the puppies sleep. 

Some time later, Mr. Carson cleared his throat behind him. Thomas turned, not quite sure what to say—if he ought to apologize for his outburst, or thank him, or…what. 

Carson spared him the decision by saying, “ _Only_ if his lordship does not object. And if he does, I do not wish to hear another word about it.”

“Yes, Mr. Carson,” Thomas said.

“And you are not to make the footmen or the hall-boys take care of it for you.”

“Yes, Mr. Carson.”

There was a long pause. Carson almost turned to go, then faced him again. “You might have tried _asking_.”

“…yes, Mr. Carson.”

He nodded crisply and left.

#

Isis came bounding over to greet him as Robert walked out into the gardens. It would be a bit of shame when the puppies left, he thought, but it would be nice having his own dog back. Thomas—and he really ought to start thinking of him as “Barrow,” now that he was under-butler—stiffened at his approach, squaring his shoulders and clasping his hands behind his back, like a soldier at parade-rest. 

Robert knew Barrow was too careful of his dignity to play with the puppies when he thought anyone was looking, but there was something about Robert in particular that seemed to make him nervous, when the puppies were in the picture. The other day, when he’d separated two of them that were playing a bit too roughly, he could have sworn Barrow thought he was going to beat them. It was almost insulting; he was sure he had never done anything that would give the impression he was the kind of man who would strike a dog. 

Barrow was watching him now, with an alert, wary expression. Cautiously, without taking his eyes off Robert, he bent over and picked up the little mongrel puppy, the one he was so fond of. 

Hoping to put him at ease, Robert nodded toward the puppies that were still playing on the grass. “They’re getting big, aren’t they?”

It took Thomas two tries to say, “Yes, my lord.”

Honestly, you would think Robert was the one who’d tried to have him sent to prison, instead of the one who’d stopped it. “You can continue helping with Ramses, if you like, after the others have gone,” he said. “I know you’ve spent a lot of time with them.”

“Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord.” Thomas glanced away for a second, then back at him. “My lord?”

“Yes?”

“I, ah, I haven’t had much luck finding a place for this dog. I thought I’d take him to the dog and cats’ home in York on my half-day.”

“That’s fine.” If he was doing it on his half day, Robert wasn’t sure why he needed to know about it. “I’m sure they’ll be able to find him a home.”

“Yes, my lord. Only…well, I’ve gotten a bit fond of him.”

“I know.” Robert had a sinking feeling that he knew where this was going. 

“And Mr. Carson said that Icouldkeephimifyoudon’tmind. My lord.”

“ _Carson_ said that?”

Thomas flinched slightly. He looked oddly young, standing there clutching his puppy. “I believe Mrs. Hughes talked him into it, my lord.”

 _That_ , Robert could believe. At least Thomas wasn’t asking him to talk Carson into it, as he’d feared. If Carson had already agreed, asking him was largely a formality. Robert had no idea what Thomas was so nervous about—though he clearly was.

“I know it’s not exactly usual, my lord. But…I’d like to. That’s all.”

“All right,” Robert said.

“My lord?”

“Yes. Keep the dog if you want to.”

The dog squirmed in Thomas’s arms, and he set it down carefully. “Thank you, my lord. I’m grateful. I—I won’t let him be any trouble, I promise. Thank you.”

Robert doubted that—puppies were always trouble—but he let it pass. Some mad impulse made him say instead, “Yes, well, if you’re having any urges to kiss me, please restrain them.”

Thomas’s mouth dropped open. “My lord, I would never—I mean, I—Christ—”

“It was a _joke_ , Barrow.” And one he regretted making, since Thomas now looked as though he was about to have a stroke. 

“Yes, my lord,” Thomas said faintly. “But…I can still keep the dog?”

“Yes, Barrow, you can keep the dog.”

#

 

So, on his half day, instead of taking Patches in to York, Thomas took the bus to Ripon to visit the pet shop, where he bought a collar and lead, a dog basket, and a box of puppy biscuits. Nefertiti had gone to her new home the day before, and the other two were leaving that day. When Thomas got back to Downton, the scullery was empty. He had a moment’s irrational panic that one of the other puppies’ owners had decided to take his dog as well, but before he could get really worried, Mrs. Hughes called from her sitting room, “He’s in here, Mr. Barrow.”

Thomas went in and found Patches with his forepaws in Mrs. Hughes’s lap, while she patted him. 

“His lordship took Isis and Ramses upstairs, and Patches was a bit lonely all by himself, so I brought him in here,” she explained. 

“Thank you.” The puppy ran over to Thomas, and he crouched down to pet him. “I hope he wasn’t any trouble.”

“No, no, he’s fine.”

Opening the parcel from the shop, Thomas took out the collar. “Here, let’s see how you like this. Patches, that’s you,” he explained, showing him one side of the tag he’d had engraved. “T. Barrow, that’s me. And Downton Abbey, that’s where we live. We’ll put this on you, and then if you run off, you’ll always be able to come home. How’s that?”

Patches bounced up and licked his ear. 

“All right, that’s enough of that,” he said, easing him back down. “You’re an under-butler’s dog now; there’s no licking.”

He glanced up at Mrs. Hughes. She was laughing at him, but somehow, he didn’t mind. “Here,” she said. “I’ll hold him still while you put the collar on.”

That night, Thomas took Patches up to his room and got him settled in his basket—or tried to. He was all right as long as Thomas sat by the basket and patted him, but as soon as he tried to go to bed himself, Patches started whimpering. Thomas tried to ignore him, but the whimpers only got louder, and then turned into yelps. “Patches, be quiet,” he said. 

It didn’t help, of course. People were going to start complaining any minute now. And he’d promised the dog wouldn’t be any trouble. “Oh, fine.” He got up and sat by the basket. Maybe if he just stayed sitting with him until he fell asleep….

That didn’t help. He _thought_ the dog was asleep, but as soon as he moved away, the whimpering started up again. 

Someone tapped at his door. “Mr. Barrow?”

Jimmy. Christ. “Yes?”

The door opened. “He misses his mum and littermates,” Jimmy said. “You’re supposed to put a hot water bottle and an alarm clock in the basket with them.”

The hot water bottle part, Thomas understood. “What’s the clock for?”

“It sounds like the mum’s heartbeat.”

If only someone had mentioned that before he’d gone to the shops. “I haven’t got a clock. Or a hot water bottle, for that matter.” He might be able to find one of those somewhere, but getting an alarm clock in the middle of the night was hopeless. 

Jimmy shrugged, then closed the door. 

Heartbeat. Right. Thomas could do that. He returned to his bed, this time taking Patches with him. Lying down on his back, he put the puppy on his chest. “How’s that? Hm?”

Patches settled down against him with a soft sigh. Within moments, he was asleep. Moments after that, Thomas was too.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I think Robert's a big OOC in that one moment, but I couldn't help myself. And yeah, Thomas is a seriously unreliable narrator in this story--I don't believe there is _anyone_ in the house who would be cruel enough to actually make him personally drown the dog.


End file.
